


This same flower that smiles to-day

by kvikindi



Series: Tumblr dares [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, much innuendo, very shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 18:37:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kvikindi/pseuds/kvikindi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre gives Prouvaire a corpse flower. Courfeyrac and Grantaire are... amazed... by it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This same flower that smiles to-day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Carmarthen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/gifts).



Prouvaire presented the pot proudly. “Combeferre gave it to me! Joly opines that it may be a courting present. I am undecided; what do you think?”

Grantaire watched in fascination as Courfeyrac’s eyes appeared to glaze over. They both gazed at the limp flower that drooped from the plant-pot. It was covered in hairs, and had it been a shade more purple, it might have resembled the ballsack of an aged gentleman, Grantaire thought uncharitably. (His own ballsack was considerably more magnificent. It was taut and springy, not like the loose skin that lay before him.)

"Whad," Courfeyrac said, pressing a gloved hand over his face, "whad, id the dabe of the Good God Albighdy is _thad_?"

"Stapelia gigantea," Prouvaire announced. He cradled the pot with every seeming of affection. "It comes from Africa. It may have seen a wildebeest! I have kept it alive for forty-eight and a quarter hours."

"Kill id!" Courfeyrac exclaimed. "Sedd id back to Africa! Led the wildebeests hab it!"

Grantaire’s eyes met Prouvaire’s. Prouvaire’s face expressed confoundment. Grantaire shrugged.

"Perhaps," Prouvaire ventured, "there is a _slight_ smell?”

Grantaire sniffed. He was reminded strongly of his unlaundered clothes, and a certain corner of his bedroom where that unfortunate odor met some rancid linseed oil, and both acquainted themselves with the nearby butcher shop in the afternoons. 

“ _Slighd_?” Courfeyrac demanded, horrified.

Grantaire sniffed again. He felt nostalgic of a sudden. It came to him that he had grown quite attached to that smell. He immediately experienced a strong urge to destroy it. He considered hurling the pot savagely across the room. “Hmm,” he said.

"It makes me feel quite— I don’t know— happy," Prouvaire said. He was obviously downcast by Courfeyrac’s reaction. He seemed, like the plant, to droop all over. 

Courfeyrac lowered his hand. It was true that, whatever else one might say of the man, Courfeyrac had an almost animal response to distress in others. He was the sad-eyed hound who would nuzzle at the back of his master’s long-dead and stinking body, in those stories that fat country-folk told of their dogs. Grantaire knew himself to be the same sort, and hated himself the more for it.

"Now I’m accustomed to it, I accept that it is not so bad,” Courfeyrac said, obviously lying. “And it is… such a thoughtful… _gift_.” He touched, or rather poked, one petal of the plant and shuddered.

Prouvaire beamed. “It is! For it is prickly, you see, just as I am.” He indicated the thing’s spined protuberances. “And yet it flowers nevertheless. And it is a very extraordinary flower. At least, that is what Joly said.”

"Did he," Courfeyrac said.

Grantaire was struggling still in the grip of strong emotions. He eyed the flower’s sole evil eye. It had a wrinkled pink appearance, descending down to a dark little star. For some reason he thought fleetingly of Enjolras. He was then quite blinded by a flash of inspiration. He could not think what had triggered it. “Jehan,” he said, “what does the smell remind you of?”

"Oh, perhaps…" Prouvaire blinked. "Combeferre, for he gave it to me."

"Perhaps his lodgings? His apartment?"

"I suppose so. No, it does, it smells much the same."

Courfeyrac groaned indistinctly. “Flesh,” he said. “Jehan, it smells like rotting flesh. As do Combeferre’s rooms, for he fills them with horrors.”

Prouvaire flared up. “That is unfair of you, Courfeyrac. Just because the study of science does not attract you, as it attracts Combeferre and myself, with the human body’s infinite magnificences—”

"Peace," Grantaire said, holding up his hand. "I merely establish why the scent pleases Jehan; as has been established, it reminds him of Combeferre. Combeferre pleases him; ergo also the scent, though one would hope that any gruesome future lovemaking would smell less fleshy—"

Courfeyrac coughed significantly.

"But let me not be sidetracked. Jehan, the flower does not offend you, therefore it is not offensive. It is indeed a most… exciting gift. Perhaps one that Combeferre is best suited to share with you."

"Because of our scientific proclivities, you mean?"

"Because of your proclivities, yes."

Prouvaire looked reasonably appeased by this judgement. “Do you think—” He hesitated. “That is, do you think that Joly might be correct in his apprehension?”

Grantaire let his gaze drift upwards. He felt a profound inner peace settle on him, the sort that is perfectly indistinguishable from despair. He knew that he was about to be delivered of a piece of wisdom. He was only in suspense as to its topic and profundity. “Ah,” he said, “love. Who can ennumerate its rituals? Who can enter into its mysteries? Were one of us to love a whale, how would we court it? We would be lost, if required to court an ape, an ostrich, or an eagle— though, as to that last, at least one of us has penetrated said mystery, or perhaps the mystery has penetrated him—”

Courfeyrac punched him in the arm.

"…As I was saying. The person to ask is surely Combeferre himself, if you wish to know his intention."

"Oh." Prouvaire blushed. "I don’t— that is— I don’t quite know how to ask him."

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. “Then don’t _ask_ him, Jehan; _tell_ him. Honestly, the two of you, you’d think you need a 200-page anatomical diagram, bound, with illustrations to scale.”

"I have no idea what you mean," Jehan said. His cheeks had gone even redder; he was one of those fair people who seem to go up in flames at every embarrassment.

"I suggest you consult the flower for inspiration," Grantaire said. He grabbed Courfeyrac’s arm and began towing him out of the room. "God, I need a drink. Shall it be the Corinthe?"

"Please," Courfeyrac said fervently.

They left Prouvaire standing there, on his Oriental carpet, cradling the plant. Grantaire was struck by a sense of failed revelation, of information almost received and then rejected. He felt this often; it took the form of a pain in his stomach. He did not care to dissect the past conversation; he would leave such anatomizing to Prouvaire and Combeferre. And to Joly, whom he was keen on upbraiding very soundly. “Lord! don’t we suffer enough,” he imagined himself saying, “without you wading in to egg them on…” That was better. It settled the melancholy. He walked more quickly to catch up with Courfeyrac. Soon they were laughing in great bellows, in the cold air of the street.

**Author's Note:**

> The idea of Prouvaire owning a corpse flower comes from Carmarthen, who prompted this work.
> 
> The title is, of course, from Robert Herrick's "To the Virgins, to make much of time."


End file.
